


hellscape

by julesmpm



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual fix it, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, They're all hurting, arya stark deserves happiness, i promise they'll get a happy ending, recovery is a rocky road, they're all grieving
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-03-04 23:24:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18822904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julesmpm/pseuds/julesmpm
Summary: After the fall of Kings Landing, Arya returns to Winterfell to heal.(spoilers for 8x5)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> real emo hours boys.

She likes to play a game when she’s alone.

 

Her dagger spins on its point, and she guesses where the handle will land.

 

She will play it forever. Forever and ever as the sun falls and as the dawn rises. She will sit in her chamber and watch her dagger spin and spin. She keeps the curtains drawn, a candle lit.

 

It is painfully dull, itching at her skull, and sometimes she has to fight the urge to throw the window open, let the light fall in, the air touch her lungs as she inhales, exhales, inhales, exhales.

 

But she cannot open the windows because she does not want to let the smoke in. She does not want to hear the screaming, the yelling, the terror of the common people that sometimes still manages to seep in through her window frame in the middle of the night. On those nights, her screams join theirs.

 

_death has granted her permission to live, but what is the point in living when so many innocent are gone?_

 

Jon comes to see her every day, bringing with him his expression of adamant concern that he never seems to shed anymore. She often avoids looking at him for this very reason, focussing rather on trivial things like picking the skin around her nail beds until they are raw and red and bleeding.

 

One day, Jon notices and takes her hands in his at once, holding them so tightly that the skin goes white. She looks up at him that day; he is almost crying.

It makes every fibre of her being feel as raw as her nail beds.

 

She wants to believe him when he tells her that the war is over, that no one is screaming, that the blood that covered the streets has been washed away and the smoke that used to sit like a cloud on top of the capital has long since been blown far by the wind, but she can’t. Even when he goes to her window, opens the blinds, she has to shut her eyes and cover her ears because just because she can’t _hear it_ or _see it_ doesn’t mean that it’s not _there_.

 

When he leaves, she spins the dagger, watching its rotations, learning it’s patterns in a way she’s never bothered to before. She sits in the same spot because _when she moves her ribs catch on fire and her stomach turns itself over and her head threatens to explode_ so she stays.

 

She pretends not to notice the way that Jon’s eyes crinkle in the corners the longer he stays in her room, how the words _I’m really fine, Jon, just give me another day_ taste sugar sweet on her tongue like a medicine she routinely ingests. She ignores the worried glances the servants give her as they pick up another untouched meal from her quarters, the way they shuffle and stop and look at her before leaving the room.

 

 **_–_ ** _how can anything be fine every again when she’s seen the world crumble right in front of her watched populations be devastated watched children cry over limp mothers watched fire burn through brick as though it was butter watched the Dragon Queen fall in front of her at the mercy of her sword watched bloodline after bloodline be ended in a matter of seconds_ **_–_ **

She doesn’t feel the hollow part of her expanding until it threatens to swallow her whole and even then, she smiles.

 

 _I’m really fine, Jon, just give me another day_.

 

Her mouth is beginning to form the words before his own spill, sharp, quick and crisp.

 

“You need to go back to Winterfell, Arya.”

 

He doesn’t look at her, stands a comfortable distance from her chair, and she wonders when Jon Snow became wary of her.

 

_I’m really fine, Jon._

“You haven’t left your chambers, you won’t open the curtains, you won’t eat.”

 

_Can’t eat, Jon. I can’t eat._

“I’ve sent a raven to Sansa, and she says you’re welcome at Winterfell as long as you need it.”

 

Of course she’s welcome at Winterfell. Winterfell was her home, once.

 

“I just–” His voice catches and he looks at her, brown eyes meeting stormy grey. Something has changed in him; chipped off or broken away or something of the like but she can see the splinters as his gaze holds hers. “I don’t know what to do for you. I wish I knew how to help you, but I don’t.”

 

_I’m really fine–_

“No, you’re not.” She didn’t even realize that the last words had passed her lips. He moves across the room, to her, and takes her hands in his own, kneeling so that he’s level with her lap. “You need to give yourself time to heal. Kings Landing has never been the place to do that.”

 

 _Kings Landing is barely even a real place anymore. It is a pile of rubble and ash and bodies and blood_.

 

“Please, Arya.” She doesn’t think she’s ever heard Jon plead for anything. “You will always have a bed here, but I can’t enter this room and watch you deteriorate for the rest of your days. I can’t let that happen. And Sansa, she knows better about the duty of care than I. We both know that.”

 

_You’re afraid I’m going to die here. At the mercy of my own being._

There’s a surge of white hot rage, makes her muscles itch to take Needle and drive it through the back of someone’s skull. Not Jon’s.

 

Maybe Jon’s.

 

And then she remembers his face on the day that she cut the Dragon Queen open, remembers the blood that erupted from her throat all over her amour, trousers, boots, because she had decided that she wanted the Queen to see her as the ending to her story. She remembers the way he had looked away during the moment, the pale shell that his skin became as her blood pooled on the bricks of Red Keep.

 

She suspects he’s been broken since that day, and the thought that she is what is continuing to scratch at his wounds washes over her and nearly engulfs her entirely.

 

He’s lost many great loves of his life, and she doesn’t think it selfish to recognize that she could be the next one to fall.

 

It’s what prompts her to pull him in, embrace him tightly, and she can feel his tears seeping through her tunic, hear the weeping that he is no longer trying to hide behind closed doors.

 

He’s her brother and always will be her brother, no matter what bloodlines have determined.

 

“I’ll go.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The North’s air is brisk.

 

She’s noticed the change in atmosphere as she rides, and it’s not as though she’s never recognized the difference before. This time, though, she takes her time breathing it in, stealing it from the universe almost greedily, letting her lungs fill with the cool, fresh, pure air.

 

It is the first time in a while that she cannot smell smoke or hear screams.

 

It is the first time that she can draw a full breath since before she entered the capital.

 

Winterfell is still a mess of jagged bricks and wood, but it’s clear that her sister has made it a priority to rebuild the fortress back to its glory. Many men work outside the walls, molding, hammering, building, sealing. She nods at them as she passes, and they nod back, some even smiling up towards her.

 

She doesn’t remember the last time she’s had anyone smile at her in full sincerity.

 

And then she passes through the gates, and her eyes are immediately drawn to the tall, crimson-haired woman standing in the midst of the courtyard.

 

The last time she had seen Sansa, Arya had been convinced it would also be their final meeting.

 

Her heart stirs at the thought.

 

She rides to her sister’s perch, dismounts gracefully, and hands the reigns to a young boy whose hands are at the ready. She knows that Sansa’s eyes are flitting up and down her body, inspecting, even before she turns back to face her.

 

She’s always been able to tell when Sansa’s eyes are on her.

 

And when she turns to look at her sister, Lady Stark of Winterfell, she can see the concern drawn all over her body, through her layers of fur and dress and corset.

 

Her eyes are hard, but not cruel. They haven’t been truly cruel towards Arya since their youth.

 

They soften when blue reaches grey, and it only takes a moment for Sansa to wrap her in her arms, holding her like she never wants to let her go. It’s the fiercest grip she’s ever felt from her sister, and a part of her wants to melt into it and _let Sansa hold her forever_.

 

Instead, she pulls back, letting the woman’s hands slide down her arms until their fingers are entwined, knotted together.

 

“Welcome home.” Her sister’s voice is quiet, full to the brim with an emotion that Arya can’t quite put her finger on.

 

_Welcome home._

* * *

 

It was wishful thinking that the nightmares would stop with the change of location.

 

_There is smoke and death and burning flesh and this time it’s her sister screaming as Winterfell burns to the ground, as the cold of the North is overcome by the all-encompassing heat of pure wildfire._

_There is blood everywhere, covering her hands and feet and drying in her hair and every inch of her is a burgundy cloak, a quilt of blood that is not hers that she cannot discard, cannot scrub away, cannot peel from her skin._

 

She only wakes when her shoulders are shaken violently, and she is suddenly aware of the sweat dripping down her forehead, of the vice-like grip with which she’s holding the furs atop her bed, of her throat burning with the howls the nightmare has pulled from her.

 

It is Sansa that wakes her the first night, holding her shoulders tightly with her slender, delicate fingers until Arya is pulled from her hellscape.

 

She has terror in her eyes, Arya is immediately aware, and they sit in silence, stone walls absorbing every sound.

 

It feels like hours before her sister detaches her shaking hands from her shoulders, and she moves swiftly to close the door to Arya’s chamber before climbing into the bed opposite her. Her arms hesitantly reach towards her, and she lets them pull into her sister, let’s herself feel the human warmth that radiates from her sister’s pale skin.

 

With the warmth comes the presence of a pulse almost as erratic as Arya’s own, something that the Lady of Winterfell cannot conceal or pass off as anything but her own fear.

 

_She can’t tell if Sansa is frightened for her or frightened of her._

And as she lies there, breath calculated, measured, there’s an undeniable part of her that hopes she won’t wake in the morning.

* * *

 

It isn’t the last time Sansa stays in her room overnight.

 

They never bring it up in the mornings following, not over breakfast.

 

Sansa won’t let her breakfast be brought to her like Jon did. She forces her to come downstairs and sit at the high table so she can watch her, try to coax food into her body.

 

She doesn’t know how to explain that everything she puts in her mouth tastes foul, bitter. Every time she swallows, it’s like the food forms a glue that blocks her throat and stops it from going to her stomach. And even if it makes it past that line of defense, her stomach becomes so unsettled that she needs to excuse herself from the table in order to make it to a chamber pot as to not vomit all over the plate.

 

But she tries, now. She can feel Sansa watching her from the moment she sits at the table to the moment she leaves, and she can feel the worry bearing down on her like a storm, and so she tries.

 

At least she tries.

 

* * *

 

 

“Cersei is dead.”

 

His voice is not loud, but they echo through the Godswood as though he has shouted.

 

She looks up at him from her spot on the ground, and he’s looking forward, his brow furrowed slightly as it is most days, now.

 

It’s not a shock to her, but it’s a confirmation she never expected to receive.

 

“I didn’t kill her.”

 

“No, you didn’t.” Bran’s voice is so calm, so oddly even with every syllable. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever really grow used to it. “She was crushed.”

 

“Oh.”

 

She turns her head back towards the tree, watches as snow falls gracefully from one leaf to the next. She is cold, despite her layers of fur and cape, and she pulls her knees into her chest, curling herself into the smallest shape she can muster.

 

“You couldn’t have saved them.”

 

 _Her heart turns to ice_.

 

She turns and Bran is looking at her, now.

 

His eyes are full of the closest thing she’s seen to compassion in him for many moons, and her whole being _aches_.

 

“I could’ve.” Her voice is so so small.

 

“It was a dragon’s flame, Arya. Powered by a monarch shaped of grief and vengeance. You couldn’t have saved them, no matter what differences you think you could’ve made.”

 

But she’s stood and left the Godswood before he’s finished the latter half.

 

* * *

 

 

The battlements of Winterfell become a place she frequents.

 

She decides that she likes to look over the courtyard, likes to watch the results of Sansa’s orchestration of the workforce.

 

She likes to watch Ser Brienne spar, teaching the members of Winterfell how to dance upon death. There are some rather good swordsman in the group, and she almost smiles as she watches them move forwards and then swiftly back.

 

She doesn’t spar anymore. Needle, albeit always on her hip, has not left its sheath since she’s returned from the capital.

 

As much as a prominent part of her itches to get back into the midst of combat, the feeling of a weapon in her hand feels hot and heavy now, not like the extension of her arm that she had trained so long for.

 

_She hopes the feeling passes, and she also hopes it stays forever._

 

One day, she peers down to see Ser Brienne practicing with the smallest members of Winterfell. Boys and girls, no older than twelve, stand in line, captivated by the tall knight’s swift movements and solemn teachings. They yield wooden swords, not unlike the ones Arya began her training with many moons ago, and they are listening and learning and are more attentive than she’s ever seen a group of children be collectively.

 

She imagines there was a time when seeing the little girls taking swordplay as seriously as stitching would make her grin broadly, but instead all she can see are armies of children, lined up, waiting to charge into a battle that they are sure to lose.

 

* * *

 

 

_–this time it’s the fire engulfing the courtyard during training, children set ablaze with their wooden swords no use for the merciless dragon, and she is watching from the battlements and she wants to jump down and pull them from the desecration into safety but her feet are cemented to the floor and she can’t close her eyes and all she do is hear the screams and smell the smoke–_

Sansa is cradling her, shushing her, comforting her as a mother would her babe, and yet Sansa is the one that is crying, while Arya’s eyes are wide open, staring at the brick wall.

 

* * *

 

 

She has been at Winterfell for just over two weeks when her feet lead her to the forge.

 

She is seeking the light and warmth of the hearth, the familiar sound of metal shaping metal, of creation.

 

But when she arrives, the forge is empty. Cold. Black and blue, coals long since turned to ash.

 

She asks Sansa about it over supper, and her sister shrugs.

 

“We need all of our people reshaping Winterfell. Besides, we haven’t found a new smith yet.”

 

A new smith.

 

She hasn’t thought about the old smith in weeks.

 

She manages to keep down her meal that night.

 

 _Her dreams that night are filled with him burning_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her recovery will never be linear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank you all for the incredible response on the first chapter of this fic! You've all been so unbelievably lovely, and it makes me so excited to continue writing and creating this story. So here is the next chapter, fairly unedited but equally as cared for. Enjoy!
> 
> Also! Comments make my heart warm! No joke!

She’s taken to wandering the halls of the fortress at nightfall, a flask of ale clutched in her hand.

 

She walks slowly, drags her feet on the stone, traces the pathways of her childhood with the feeling of liquor burning her throat. Sometimes, she feels the eyes of her father, her mother, her brothers; they follow her as she floats through the candlelit corridors.

 

Sometimes, she remembers that they are long gone.

 

Every movement she makes is lethargic, from her steps forward to her gulps of ale.

 

_Syrio says every swordsman should study cats. They’re as quiet as shadows, and as light as feathers._

 

She never moves slowly. She never drags her feet, never lets her body slump.

 

_You have to be quick to catch them._

She never used to, anyways.

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You’re very thin, you know.”

 

Bran’s words are so blunt that she could almost laugh. Almost.

 

She would laugh if she knew that what he was saying was in jest. She would laugh if she hadn’t thought the very same thing for the past nights.

 

She has seen the way her ribs are pronounced, the way her once slender arms have become weaker and grow closer to skeletal than anything else.

 

She hates it. It’s despicable, what she’s done to her own body.

 

_But can she even say that she’s done it to herself? Is her mind even connected to her being anymore?_

She unsheathes Needle, places it in the center of her palm. Feels the weight of it, the way that it’s beginning to feel like a foreign object instead of her dancing partner.

 

_–she can’t save people with Needle, not against collapsing brick and torrents of flame and pure, unadulterated evil–_

“I know.” Her voice is hollow in its reply, and she slides her weapon back into its home base.

 

“Sansa is very worried about you.”

 

She knows this too. She sees it in her sister’s every action, from the moment she sets foot in the room to the moment her skirts follow her out.

 

She hates that she’s hurting them. Hates that they’re trying to help her get better _but nothing can help her get better not when there are still screams and smoke and and and–_

Arya finds herself slipping more and more often, and it is terrifying.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The training yard is filled with moonlight when the night sky is clear, and she slips down the steps and sets foot on the battered, worn, oh-so-familiar grounds.

 

Everything is unsteady, and she clutches the wooden stair railing with a grip not unlike the one that accompanies her night terrors.

 

She is dizzy, and whether it’s from the lack of nutrients or the head wound that is still bruised or straight exhaustion or a combination of the three, she cannot be sure.

 

But determination has never been lacking for Arya, not even now.

 

She takes three shaking steps across the cobblestones, pulls Needle from her belt, and holds it outright, willing herself to ignore the quivering of her left arm with the smallest of weights.

 

She swings it swiftly down, diagonally right, and can’t help but relish in the swish of the blade through the crisp night air.

 

It’s only a momentary victory as she feels the lack of the rooting in her feet, how unbalanced the strike had been, and suddenly her left shoulder meets the cobblestones with a soft thud and then–

 

_–and then it is the dust settling in her lungs and then unevenness of the stairs beneath her and the sun blazing on her skin and the blood dripping from her forehead and her throat screaming for water and the hope that she is crushed next that the building she is leaning on is the next to collapse–_

 

She could die on these cobblestones and it wouldn’t make any difference.

 

* * *

 

 

 

He slips into her dreams again that night.

 

He is soft, skin touching skin, lips uniting with shoulder and collarbone and chest and chin and _everywhere_.

 

She keeps waiting for the fire and the smoke and the devastation but it never comes.

 

It is only them, floating in a utopia of their own.

 

It is like the gods have taken mercy on her, if only for the eve.

 

It is the first sound sleep she’s had in weeks, the first time she wakes with breath regulated and fists unclenched.

 

It is not the end of her night terrors, she knows, but she lets herself sink into the moment, trying to commit every detail to memory.

 

Maybe she does want to live.

 

* * *

 

 

She knows by the alarmed look on Sansa’s face that her tunic of choice has not done the best at covering her already purpling bruise from her dusk stumble.

 

“What _happened_?” The question has already left her lips by the time Arya has lowered herself into the chair to her sister’s left, the motion slower than normal from the stiffness of her movement. “Where on earth did you get that?”

 

“I’m out of practice.” She picks at her porridge gingerly, scoops some onto her spoon, and puts it in her mouth. It’s still bitter, but manageable.

 

Some days are better than others.

 

“You’d be less out of the practice if you sparred with Ser Brienne.” Her sister counters, her eyes not leaving the mark on Arya’s shoulder. “Or you need to be more careful. Or both.”

 

Sansa is so concerned about this _bloody bruise_. Still so concerned over the superficial.

 

“Why don’t you go down to the training yard today?” Something about her sister’s suggestion makes her skin crawl, and it’s like the idea of picking up her sword again has become the most repulsive idea she could muster up. “I’m sure Brienne would love to have someone on her level to practice with, even if you’re not up to the caliber that you’re used to. She spends most of her time teaching–“

 

“Teaching children how to fight?” She interrupts Sansa’s sentiment, and her voice is like a harsh tear in the fabric of the conversation. “I know that. I’ve seen. Can’t say I understand the need to teach the babies how to use a weapon, though.”

 

That’s a lie. Of course she understands.

 

She understands the inherent wanting to hold a sword in baby-fat hands, to learn how to swing and stab with both grace and accuracy. To be able to defend not only herself, but her family. Her bloodline. Her name.

 

Sansa is looking at her with an odd expression, and she knows that her sister is more than aware of the parallels that the children in the training yard share with her.

 

But she says nothing, turns back to her meal stoically, and Arya does the same.

 

Except while her sister eats, she stirs instead.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“She was only trying to help.”

 

She stands in the Godswood this time, holding Needle out in front of her as steadily as she can manage.

 

“Well, she didn’t” Her words are cold, and her arm quivers dangerously but she manages to keep the blade horizontal.

 

If she could only hold the weapon like she used to be able to, with strength and diligence and as light as a feather, a part of her believes that everything can be reverted. Maybe she’ll be able to feel like Arya Stark again instead of this broken, ruined shell of who she once was.

 

That part, she decides, is stupid.

 

She’s found this odd solace in the Godswood, conversing with whatever is left of her little brother. Perhaps the idea that he’s not fully there either is some sort of cruel comfort.

 

“She doesn’t know what to tell Jon.”

 

Her arm shakes, confidence dwindles.

 

“About what?”

 

“About you.” She knows the answer before it leaves his lips. “He sends her ravens to see how your recovery has been going. She’s having troubles deciding what to say.”

 

“Why not just tell him the truth?” _That every up comes with several downs; that Sansa sleeps in her room more than her own; that her muscles are failing; that she’s doing badly._

“She thinks she’s failed both of you.” Her arm finally gives way, Needle clattering onto the roots of the tree. “She thinks that it’s of her own fault that you aren’t getting any better.”

 

“It’s never been her fault.”

 

It’s always been hers, her own stupid brain _that can’t move past anything anymore can’t let one thing go can’t stop thinking about all of the things she could’ve done should’ve done._

“I know.”

 

She pulls Needle up from the ground as he responds, slides it back into the sheath at her hip.

 

That night, she sneaks into Sansa’s room before her sister gets the chance to come to hers. Before there’s any chance for a sound of indignation, Arya moves swiftly across the room and lies next to her sister.

 

The bed is foreign, but not unfamiliar; many moons ago, Sansa’s bed would be the frame of the fortresses they would create in their minds.

 

“Arya–”

 

“Thank you.” She interrupts the Lady of Winterfell’s weary voice, nearly blurts the sentiment out. “You are doing so much for me, for Winterfell, and I’m _so sorry_ that I’m not getting better, Sansa. I wish I was. I _want_ to be.”

 

She feels her bottom lip quiver and bites it fiercely, feels her sister’s grip around her shoulder as she pulls her in, presses a kiss to her forehead as delicate as a butterfly.

 

“Don’t apologize for things out of your control.” Sansa’s voice is no louder than a whisper, but it is _warm_ and _powerful_ and makes her want to _melt_. “You’re trying; I’m trying; there’s not much more we can expect from one another.”

 

“You could’ve turned me away.” Every day, it becomes achingly clearer how much pain she is bringing to her own family. “When Jon wanted to send me back. You could’ve let me stay in Kings Landing, keep my troubles to the capital.”

 

Sansa’s answer is simple and immediate.

 

“You’re my sister. I could never turn you away.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Even though her sword still burns to touch and feels like a lead weight made to drag her to the bottom of the sea, she wants to be able to fight.

 

Ser Brienne kindly agrees to practices after dusk, while the remainder of Winterfell is tucking into supper or finishing up brickwork or being distracted away from the core of the fortress.

 

She wants to be able to fight, but she simultaneously wants to conceal her newfound weakness with a blade from the common folk who still whisper things like ‘Bringer of the Dawn’ as she passes.

 

The sun is setting as Brienne helps her into her armor; the initial weight of it nearly pulls her to her knees, and she can feel the knight tug gently but firmly at the chain in order to tighten it where it had fit like a glove before.

 

It makes her feel so small. So inferior.

 

So _miserable_.

 

Brienne is quick on her feet, Arya knows from experience, so she’s immediately and completely aware of the change from normalcy with which Brienne moves. She takes her time, letting her movements linger in the air before setting them on the ground and building up to her jabs in an almost exaggerated fashion. Both are choices that Arya knows an skilled swordsman would be able to pick up in combat, discover their patterns and find the moments of weakness within their opponent in order to obtain victory. It’s frustrating to see how dumbed down the movements are being made for her.

 

Further frustration comes when she always seems to be one step behind.

 

She is sweating and her limbs are quivering and her Needle seems to have a mind of its own, always slightly inaccurate to the path she wants it to take.

 

It takes every fiber of her being not to slam her sword on the ground and storm up the battlement’s steps.

 

But she is no child. Damaged and unstable, sure, but never a child.

 

So she continues until her legs are physically unable to hold herself up any longer, and then she concedes, placing her hands on her knees and breathing heavily.

 

The smile Brienne gives her is of a sort of melancholy encouragement.

 

“We’ll get back to it tomorrow, Lady Arya.”

 

She doesn’t even have the energy to correct the title.

 

When she climbs the stairs towards the chambers, Sansa, who’s watched on the battlements from the moment Arya set foot in the training yard, places a hand on her upper arm and squeezes.

 

“You did wonderfully.”

 

She manages a shaky smile as a response before pushing past her sister and moving to her own room, where she positivity _collapses_ onto her bed.

 

She doesn’t even have the energy to cry.

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s an overcast, exceedingly dull day when everything changes.

 

She’s leaning against a pillar in the training grounds, watching as the workers of Winterfell lay brick on top of brick in hopes of bettering the arching entrance. She had initially wanted to help with the brickwork, but Sansa rejects her idea as kindly and completely as possible, saying that she needs to build more strength up before doing any sort of heavy lifting.

 

Although she grumbles, she knows that her sister is right. She still stands by her word that Sansa is the smartest person she knows.

 

Today has been one of her better days, for the most part. She’s kept down most of her porridge and the nightmares were merciful in the evening past. That’s why she stands today, instead of sitting like what has become her normal.

 

And then the horns blare, announcing the approach of a visitor, and she doesn’t seem to be the only one startled by the sudden blast.

 

The last time the horns were heard through Winterfell, they were announcing _her_ arrival.

 

Her hand goes instinctively to Needle’s handle, gripping it firmly with shivering fingers.

 

And then she spots the banners, the sigil of a rearing stag painted across each, and her stomach plummets.

 

_I’m not Gendry Rivers, anymore. I’m Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storms End, by order of the Queen._

She runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gendry is in the building, folks! Gendrya is on it's way!
> 
> I just want to reiterate that Arya's recovery (as well as any recovery, really) is not linear; I don't think it'll ever be completely smooth sailing. However, this fic is meant to focus on that, and how she grows, and I am so eager to keep developing her through that.
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> xo


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> her father used to tell her that the bricks listen.

_Everything is burning._

_Everything is burning, and she is completely numb._

_All she can feel is the erratic pulsation of her heart beating in her chest._

_There are people all around her, running, screaming, dragging their broken bodies to anywhere that could possibly be safer than here._

_Nowhere is safe anymore._

_The dragon’s fire is not a merciful flame._

_They need to run. Everyone needs to run. To get as far away from terror’s trajectory as possible._

_There are children everywhere. Hiding behind railings, screeching as they clutch a lifeless parent, standing silent in the middle of the street._

_Lying withered, burned, broken, crushed._

_How can she help them?_

_She’s supposed to be the one who could save humanity. She’d done it once before._

_But now, as the flames ravage the towers and the streets and the smallfolk and her, all she can do is run._

* * *

 

She doesn’t know why she’s hiding.

 

She doesn’t know why she’s shaking.

 

Her stomach keeps turning over and over and over and she’s rocking back and forth slowly to try and soothe the storm inside of her.

 

Gendry is here.

 

She didn’t have to see him to know of his arrival. The fanfare outside is of that which accompanies a lord, and the sigil upon their banners is unmistakably that of Baratheon descent.

_Gendry is here Gendry is here Gendry is here Gendry is here–_

And she is hiding from him high in the battlements of Winterfell.

 

She doesn’t want to see him. Not when she’s crumbling. Not when she can’t even manage to hold her own sword without quivering.

 

_I know death. He’s got many faces._

She was confident. Cocky, even.

 

She may have known death before, but now, she knows the devastation that follows death’s path.

 

It’s worse. Much worse.

 

She stays in the battlements until the day falls to night.

 

 

The hallways of Winterfell don’t creak; they whisper.

 

Her father always used to tell her that the bricks listen, that they can hold secrets better than anything in all of Westeros because they have no place to go and tell them. Sansa had always thought it was silly, but Arya would always allow extra time so she could slow her pace in the candlelight and try to listen to see if the walls would ever give up the confessions they were privy to.

 

Maybe that’s why she slows now.

 

She can hear the feast going still on in the dining hall; no doubt Sansa is working to entertain her guests. She should be there, she knows. It isn’t proper for Lady Stark to have an empty chair at her side.

 

She stops her movement completely, leans against the brick wall and lets her eyes close.

 

_She is so tired._

And suddenly, she’s aware of the sound of steps approaching behind her, and her hand’s barely got a grip on Needle’s handle when–

 

“Arya?”

 

It’s him.

 

It’s _him_.

 

She doesn’t turn, still faces away from the voice, but lets her fingers loosen from her weapon, taking a deep, slow breath as her arm returns to her side.

 

“Arya.” He repeats her name, and this time it’s no question; it’s an exhale, a confirmation.

 

Slowly, she rotates to face him, head moving last so that she can inhale once more before she sees his face.

 

_Oh, it_ _really is him_.

 

He’s half hidden from the lack of light in the hallway, but the flickering glow of the candles is enough to make him out, make out his face and his chest and his shoulders and his legs.

 

He’s looking right at her, and she’s straining to read his face, to know what is going on in his mind, but all she can make out are his eyes piercing into her, not wavering for a moment, not even blinking.

 

There’s an ache of longing, right at the pit of her stomach, and it’s so unfamiliar that it terrifies her.

 

“I thought you were dead.” His words sound hollow, fractured, and she knows exactly what emotion his face is portraying without needing to see it.

 

It’s pain. His voice is dripping with it.

 

“I thought I would be.”

 

_I should be._

He doesn’t move, stands as though he is rooted into the cool stone floor. She doesn’t, either.

 

She doesn’t know what to expect.

 

She doesn’t know what to _do_.

 

“How…” His voice trails away, and she can make out his brows furrowing and unfurrowing as he tries to formulate his words, tries to make sense of _he_ r, of her being _alive and here_.

 

She’s not alone in her confusion, she knows, but an aching part of her suspects that that is as far as the similarities fall.

 

His eyes narrow, shift from hers down to look more at her feet.

 

“How long have you been in Winterfell?”

 

“Not long.” She’s not lying. She doesn’t think she’s lying.

 

She tries not to think about how terrifying it is that she’s unable to recall exactly how long she’s been back in the North.

 

 “ _Arya_.” Her name sounds as though it has been lodged in the back of his throat for some time, thick and filled with a sort of grief that can only be grown with time.

 

She closes her eyes, tries to focus on her breathing instead of how much she’s hurt him.

 

Because even in the dim light of the candles, she has been able to notice how he looks older, how he can’t look in her direction without a crooked edge of pain radiating from his figure.

 

“You could’ve sent me a letter, a raven, _something_ , Arya.”

 

She hates the way her name sounds laced with his suffering.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

She wants to crumble.

 

“I thought you were dead.” He repeats his previous words that were already hanging in the air, pulls them down and pushes them back at her. “I _mourned you_ , after I heard about Kings Landing. I thought you’d become _dust_.”

 

There’s a low humming in her ears now and she tries to focus on it, tries to ground herself again.

 

Everything stings.

 

_Maybe I should’ve become dust._

 

She doesn’t realize that she’s falling until his arms catch her, moments from the ground.

 

Despite his anguish, his pain, he’s still as warm and steady as ever as he holds her.

 

Worry is at the forefront of his eyes now, and as much as she hates pity, she accepts it as though it is holy.

 

_I’m sorry._

The words make her lips tingle, and his lips tremble in response, hand landing on her cheek and thumb stroking up and down from her ear to her chin.

 

His recognition of her fractured being is scalding.

 

If he’s mad, if he was ever mad, he’s locked it away for now, hidden deep in the vault of his mind.

 

“Don’t apologize.” He is so tender, and she is so scared that a shard of her splintering self is going to tear right through him, leave him bleeding and cold.

 

She begins to cry just as his own tears begin to fall from his chin into her hair.

 

His grip on her is tight, almost painful, and she tries to focus on the sting, tries to hold onto whatever is left of herself as it works to slip away over and over again.

 

He cradles her so closely to him that she can feel every breath he takes, swaying back and forth ever so slightly as if she is but a babe in his arms.

 

She cries and cries and cries.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa finds them, still entwined, leaning against the sturdy brick wall.

 

It could be hours or days or weeks or months later, but all Arya knows is that her tears have dried down to tracks from her eyes to her chin.

 

Gendry has loosened his grip but still holds her close, his chest a cushion that separates her body from the wall. She can still feel his breathing, feels the way it has slowed as the time has passed.

 

She’s anchored her own breath to his so that every inhale and exhale is performed in synchronicity.

 

They haven’t spoken.

 

They don’t need to, right now.

 

She can pick out Sansa’s stride from nearly anything, so she feels no need to move when the echo of steps on the cobblestones.

 

Her sister’s skirts brush Gendry’s outstretched legs as she stops, takes in the two of them in the warm glow of the candle, and Arya sees a glimpse of a flicker in her sister’s eyes.

 

“Come, Arya.” She offers her hand, not unkindly, and she feels him shift behind her, loosening his latch on her so that she can move more freely than before. “You need to sleep.”

 

Sansa’s commands had become gradually easier to take once Arya discovered the genuine concern that was the catalyst behind them.

 

She hesitates, feels for one more twin exhale, and then stands, taking the Lady of Winterfell’s hand for stability. He stands behind her, brushes the dust off of the back of his trousers, and wipes at one eye with his thumb.

 

“I trust you will be able to find your chambers, Lord Baratheon?”

 

She’s completely forgotten about his new title, about the new life that he leads, and she almost lets out a hollow laugh at the absurdity of it all.

 

He nods, his response husky.

 

“Yes, my lady. I will be fine.” Her sister smiles at him, her arm securing itself around Arya’s waist for support as has become the custom in their life. “Goodnight, Lady Sansa.”

 

And he turns to her, his eyes flitting over her figure quickly before returning to connect with hers.

 

“Goodnight, Arya.”

 

This time, her name sounds like a prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see!
> 
> Well, we made it to the end of season 8, y'all. What a rollercoaster that was, hey?
> 
> Obviously, this story is very very not canon compliant, especially now that the series has ended, but you all best know that I'm still writing for it!
> 
> I hope you all liked the reunion of Gendry and Arya. I have a million different ways that it could've played out (some of which I want to explore more in other one shots that are a bit more canon compliant!) but I felt as though with everything that Arya has been going through in this, this was the way I thought would make the most sense. Gendry really doesn't know the half of what's going on with Arya, and I'm looking forward to exploring that more in future chapters as well as his own personal grief and change that he's been dealing with!
> 
> Let me know what you think! Comments make my whole day and my heart warm.
> 
> xo


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he deserves so much better than her.

_The streets are painted in blood like a sadistic layer of carpet, and she feels the way it pools about her boots as she walks through the silence._

_The bodies that scatter the streets do not grow scarce as she travels, seem to pile higher and higher as she shrinks into the cobblestones._

_And then her eyes move slightly to the left, and her whole body seizes and she cannot breathe, cannot feel–_

_A hammer, carefully crafted and painfully familiar, lies alone in the lake of blood beside her._

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa doesn’t ask her about Gendry that night, and she silently thanks the Gods as her sister falls asleep by her side, her breath hot on Arya’s shoulder.

 

Her whole body begins to shiver, and it doesn’t stop until the sun rises in the morning.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s there breaking fast in the hall when she enters, and the overwhelming feeling of the unknown hits her so hard that she’s almost knocked to her knees. But she stay steady on her feet, moves to her spot next to the Lady of Winterfell and watches as Sansa spoons porridge into her anticipating bowl.

 

She can feel his calculating gaze, knows that now that there is more than a candle lighting the space that he is drinking her in, really seeing her for the first time. Every spot that his eyes stop to linger on burns as though he’s touched her with tongs hot from the flames.

 

The dark, crater like circles under her eyes.

 

The way her collarbone juts out ungracefully in a way that it didn’t before.

 

The hand that shakes as she stirs her breakfast, and the lack of which she’s actually consuming.

 

He’s taking her in, taking her all in, and she can feel a blush furiously creeping up her neck and onto her cheeks.

 

His eyes don’t waver when she stands, amidst Sansa’s protests, and moves swiftly to exit the hall.

 

* * *

 

 

The tree’s branches rustle with the wind, and she watches as a leaf detaches itself and floats, ever so gently, to the grass of the Godswood.

 

It’s quieter without Bran present, no matter how silent he tends to be during the time they’ve spent in the cover of the tree.

 

She takes her usual spot to sit, leans up against the trunk and pulls her cloak tighter around her body as the wind begins to whistle.

 

It’s peaceful here, despite the events of past battles. It’s one of the few spots in Winterfell that was in no need of being rebuilt.

 

She doesn’t think it’s ever stopped feeling safe for her.

 

Perhaps that is why she doesn’t flinch when she hears the footsteps approaching to her left.

 

She knows who it is, anyways.

 

“You never finished your breakfast.”

 

His voice is calmer than the previous night, more even, balanced. She follows his words and looks up at him, and there he is, cloak drawn, steaming bowl in his hand, soft smile etched on his face.

 

She doesn’t respond, just looks at him, and he moves closer, sits on a root and places the bowl in her lap. Its warmth finds its way through her cloak and onto her legs, and she doesn’t know quite how to phrase the fact that she can’t eat.

 

Instead, she settles for a very quiet “Thank you.” as she lifts the spoon and brings the warmth to her mouth.

 

He’s still looking at her, smile playing on his lips but concern etched in every other line of his face.

 

He has new lines now, she notices. Probably brought about by lordly duties and battle scars.

 

She pushes away the idea that any of the lines could have begun as worry lines from her.

 

“What’s going on, Arya?” His question is gentle, barely grazes her, and she hates that she doesn’t know how to answer. There’s no denying anything to him, no use in that since their first meeting was quite telling, but she’s still unsure as to what to tell him.

 

Somehow, miraculously, he is able to make out the bewilderment in her eyes, and his question changes.

 

“How have you been?”

 

It’s kind of him to ask when he’s seen her so weak the night before.

 

Her lips form an empty smile that mirrors his.

 

“Better.” Her voice is low. “I’ve been better.”

 

An understatement, they both know.

 

He doesn’t press, doesn’t push her.

 

Instead he reaches forwards and takes her free hand in both of his, moves it up to his lips to press a kiss to her knuckles.

 

_Oh_.

 

_She’s missed him_.

 

The feeling washes over her like a wave crashing onto the shore.

 

“We’ll get you better.”

 

She can _feel_ his words, his lips just above her hand.

 

She can feel her heart cracking, splintering.

 

_Oh, Gendry._

_You don’t know how broken I am._

* * *

 

She is flat on her back, and yet it’s Ser Brienne who concedes to conclude their sparring match.

 

A lick of fury washes over her, and she stands up quickly, Needle back out in front of her, poised to strike.

 

But Brienne shakes her head, gently pushes the blade so that the tip is ready only to attack the mulch on the ground.

 

“We don’t want to push it, Lady Arya.”

 

And she knows that Brienne has done this because she noticed the way that Arya’s sword arm is quivering, the way it takes her an additional step to steady herself before moving, the way that she’s breathing heavily after only fifteen minutes of combat.

 

But still, she’s angry.

 

Not at Brienne. Not at Needle.

 

She’s angry at herself, and her seeming inability to do anything well anymore.

 

She shoves Needle back into its sheath and turns, nearly stomping all the way back up to her chambers.

 

It feels too similar to when she was young and had to stay inside to learn cross-stitching with Sansa.

 

She pulls her dagger from her belt and throws it across the room and the hilt hits the wall instead of the blade and it falls to the floor and suddenly she’s yelling, screeching, throwing things from her cabinet and tearing the pillows on her bed until white feathers fly and fall through the air and it all looks like snow and ash and suddenly she looks and _the walls are on fire and there are screams from every direction and everything touching her is hot and burns her flesh–_

And then her door bursts open and Sansa’s there, running her hands over her body to check for injury and shushing her and pulling her into her chest with whispers of _you’re alright, you’re here, I’ve got you._

And then there’s another palm smoothing her cheek, a rougher, larger hand with calloused fingertips, and he’s there, careful not to separate her from her sister but also placing his spare hand on her thigh, gripping it so softly yet _so_ _firmly_.

 

Amidst everything, she can’t fathom how he is so patient, so calm, so willing while she is at her very worst.

 

They both stay at her side until her breath begins to regulate again and she is able to feels the solidity of her bed beneath her and their hands on her body.

 

Neither one of them seems willing to let her go, leave her be.

 

Her eyes move to Gendry, and the blue of his are so intently fixated on her that she can feel it in the pit of her stomach.

 

There’s this lingering look of questioning written on his face, edged with the helplessness that Sansa constantly radiates, no matter how hard she tries to mask it.

 

She hates that she’s the one to cause so much distress to the ones that she holds so close, hates it with every fiber of her being.

 

_What’s going on, Arya?_

She wishes she could answer.

 

* * *

 

 

The maester offers her milk of the poppy that night, and, same as all the nights previous, she turns it down.

 

She expects Gendry to chastise her as Sansa did at first, question why she would willingly turn down the chance of a dreamless sleep, a proper rest.

 

But Gendry looks at her with nothing more than understanding, gives her a sad smile as she refuses the drug.

 

He knows exactly how she feels. Milk of the poppy weakens the senses, and although Winterfell is safe now, risking grogginess is not something that Arya’s ever been willing to do.

 

He understands.

 

When the maester leaves, Sansa following swiftly, the room is hushed, and she hates the way he’s sitting at her bedside like she’s an invalid, like she’s a patient that he has to tiptoe around.

 

Like she could erupt at any moment, with any wrong move.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

The words that exit his mouth are among the last things that she was expecting him to say.

 

“Why?” Hers come more harshly than she anticipates, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver from her for a second. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

 

_I have so much to be sorry for_.

 

“I wasn’t here.” Her mind falls back to him at Winterfell, him in the forge, before he continues. “I wasn’t with you.”

 

Her lips form a hollow, lightless smile.

 

“I never expected you to be, Gendry.”

 

_I turned you down. And then I left without another word._

 

She doesn’t need to say everything. He’s fully aware of her rejection, she knows.

 

“Still.” He looks down at his hands, fidgeting on his lap. “I wanted to be. I needed to be. You needed help, and I–” His voice breaks, and he inhales shakily before continuing. “I should’ve been there. Regardless of everything.”

 

He is the most selfless man she has ever met, and she can feel her heart burning, cracking, shattering.

 

She remembers turning him down. She remembers the way that his face fell as she turned to back to her bow, the way she could hear his feet shifting back and forth before turning and leaving her to her target.

 

She remembers how he avoided her eyes when they passed in the halls, was fully engulfed in his work whenever she would pause at the forge.

 

She hurt him, differently than the way she’s hurt Sansa and Bran and Jon and everyone else as she’s worsened. She hurt him before everything. She hurt him deeply, _personally_.

 

And now he’s in front of her, nearly in tears about the fact that he hasn’t been around to _help her_.

 

“This isn’t fair.” Her words quiver dangerously, and he looks up from his hands, confusion clouding his features before she corrects herself. “This isn’t fair to _you_.”

 

He smiles at that, mirroring the emptiness that she feels.

 

“Nothing’s ever been fair to me, Arya.” He reaches forward and tucks a hair that’s escaped from her braid behind her ear. “I don’t know why that would change now.”

 

_You deserve so much better than me_.

 

His hand lingers on the side of her face, warm and comforting, and she lets her eyes close, fiercely holding back the tears that threaten to flow down her cheeks.

 

_So much better than me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey loves!
> 
> I kind of feel like this chapter is a whole lot of nothing, but I really want to take my time to work with Arya and Gendry and their foundation. There's so much that's unsaid between the two of them, and man oh man do they need to communicate! We'll get there, I promise. Right now, it's a LOT of hurt/comfort.
> 
> Let me know what you think! Comments always encourage me to continue.
> 
> xoxo


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it remains a raw, gaping wound.

He had begun the journey to Winterfell with minimal expectations in place.

 

He’d only been to Winterfell once before; an eventful visit, to say the very least.

 

Perhaps he should fear the fortress. After all, only hardships seem to have followed him through the halls. Ghosts reside in the bricks, he knows for certain.

 

He’s seen one himself.

 

He remembers the way she had appeared out of thin air behind the Hound, the way her voice had rang through the forge like the familiar song of metal shaping metal.

 

_Leave him be._

He had never thought her voice would reach his ears again. Not in this life, anyways. He had nearly pinched himself just to be certain that he wasn’t caught in a dream, because there was no way the Gods would be that good to him, no way that after so long and so much, she would be standing there, unmistakably and perfectly _Arya Stark_.

 

She had been a ghost to him before then, before she proved that she was undeniably alive and warm and _her_.

 

The prospect of returning to Winterfell after _everything_ , after the massacre and the revolution and the regicide (although he was never sure if he should call it regicide if he had never considered Daenerys any sort of monarch) is so overwhelming that he shuts himself in his solar for the remainder of the day after it is suggested.

 

It is too soon after the fall of Kings Landing. Everything is too _fresh_.

 

He knows that she was there as the buildings collapsed, as the fires blazed, as the city crumbled to little more than nothing.

 

To believe that she could have survived that seemed almost childish, in a way.

 

Almost selfish.

 

He cries when no one is looking at him.

 

He lets the piece of his heart that was crushed alongside her throb, ache, pulse.

 

He wills it to heal.

 

It doesn’t. It remains a raw, gaping wound.

 

He doesn’t want to go back to Winterfell because he knows that she’ll be _everywhere_ there, not like in Storm’s End where he can internalize and brood and cry and then leave his chambers and speak to people that haven’t the faintest idea.

 

In Winterfell, she is in the snow, the bricks, the halls, the trees, the _forge_.

 

The thought of it nearly brings him to his knees.

 

It is Davos who finally convinces him, sitting across from him at the table in his room as he so often does while he gives council.

 

“You can’t avoid it forever, lad.” His voice is low, calm, and Gendry takes a swig of his ale, wiping the excess away with the back of his hand. “It would be good form to see to the rebuild of Winterfell, especially considering your role in the combat and your relationship to the Starks.”

 

He looks up at that, looks into his advisor’s eyes, and sees the sadness that dances behind them.

 

Davos has never shifted from being a very clever man.

 

“It might help.” His next words are chosen carefully, Gendry knows. “You can’t be sure it won’t until it doesn’t.”

 

They set off for Winterfell in the morning.

 

And it’s only when they make their way across the grounds of Winterfell and he sees Sansa pushing Bran towards them ( _Arya used to do that Arya used to do that Arya used to do that_ ), he realizes that he has absolutely no idea what to say.

 

He’s still struggling with the way that high-borns address one another, the invisible lines that a noble conversation should never cross, but this is different.

 

They’ve lost their sister, after everything that their family has been put through, and the open wound on his heart pulsates and aches for them, and _he wants to say everything and nothing at all._

 

So he says nothing, greets them warmly as Lady and Lord as guilt courses through his veins. They return his smile, welcome him to the North, invite him for a meal after what “must’ve been a tiring journey”.

 

They don’t say a thing about her either.

 

Not then.

 

It’s when they’re sitting in the great hall and he notices the chair left empty to Sansa’s right, notices the way that the cutlery is set before an empty plate, as if anticipating the arrival of another to the meal.

 

Somehow, he knows that it’s Arya’s spot, and it takes everything he has not to break all over again.

 

Sansa must’ve noticed his lingering gaze on the spot, and her face turns sheepish, almost sad.

 

“My sister should’ve been here.” He nods and looks back down at his plate, feeling shameful for making her think about the loss she has suffered. “I don’t know where she’s gone. Normally she’ll eat with us.”

 

He doesn’t even try to conceal the way her words make his mouth drop open, his eyes flying back up to meet hers.

 

“Arya?” Sansa’s face furrows at his response, perhaps at the lack of lordly pleasantries that she’s expecting. “She’s alive?”

 

He can barely force his voice over the volume of whisper, breath hardly making it to his lungs, and he watches as Sansa’s face dawns with understanding amongst the confusion written in her eyes.

 

“Yes.” Her voice has softened as the word falls from her lips, and he tries to anchor himself even though his hands are beginning to shake violently. “I’m sorry, Lord Baratheon, I did not know that you were unaware. I thought you might have received word from Kings Landing.”

 

He had received word, word that the city had burned and Daenerys was gone and Jon was working to bring peace to what remained of the capitol.

 

There hadn’t been a single mention of Arya in sight.

 

She had been dead. She had been dead and gone and he was never going to see her, hear her, hold her ever again.

 

And suddenly, not only is Arya Stark alive, but she’s _here_.

 

He can’t breathe.

 

“Gendry?” He barely notices the informality in her addressing him, stands despite the looks he’s garnering from his behavior.

 

“Pardon me, my lady.” The words barely pass through his teeth, and he leaves, walks straight out of the room without acknowledging the questioning eyes that follow behind.

 

He doesn’t know where he’s going, what he’s looking for.

 

He doesn’t know how he feels.

 

He is hot with anger, with betrayal, with _why wouldn’t she tell him why wouldn’t anyone tell him why would she keep her own survival a secret from him?_

 

And yet simultaneously it is a wave of relief crashing over him, a hum in his ears and a clean breath of air while he’s choking because she’s _alive_. She _lived_.

 

He doesn’t know how he feels until he turns a corner and sees _her_.

 

Everything turns to pain. White hot needles piercing through his skin, through _him_ , threatening to tear him apart at the seams.

 

He can barely muster her name, his chest heaving with the sorrow, the hurt.

 

When she turns, looks back at him after he calls her name a second time, he has to fight the instinct to shut his eyes.

 

She is a different type of ghost this time.

 

In the candlelight, she looks exactly as he remembers, and yet so, so different.

 

It’s her, undeniably her, but she’s cowering in his shadow as though she’s frightened of something.

 

He’s never known her to be frightened of anything, even as a girl.

 

And then she falls and he catches her in an instant, and she’s _so small_ and he can barely keep his arms around her without thinking about how the bone of her shoulder is raggedly digging into his chest like it never has before.

 

He’s not angry, not anymore, not now. Perhaps later.

 

He holds her so tightly that he’s almost scared that she’ll break, snap in half in his hands, and he can feel his whole being reeling with _her_ , with how she’s _changed_.

 

And when she apologizes, he forgets everything she’s done to him, every ache that she’s caused, and is instead overwhelmed by the guilt of not coming sooner, not finding her, not helping her before she crumbled into _this_.

 

His hand finds her cheek, calloused palms meeting softened skin.

 

He wants to touch her, feel every inch of her, trace the dark underneath her eyes with his thumbs and pretend that he can erase her pain.

 

_Don’t apologize._

* * *

 

He’s been in Winterfell for just over two days when Sansa requests he join her in her solar.

 

They haven’t spoken much since his arrival, despite that the initial reason for the trip North being to gather an idea of how the rebuild is faring as well as build their ally-ship as a whole.

 

Of course, that was before the ghost of Arya Stark appeared, fully palpable, before him.

 

Suddenly, the hours of light become hours of observation; he’s watched as she pushes away full bowls of food, as she struggles to stay upright in a sparring match that in the past she would have scoffed at.

 

He’s seen her tear completely at the seams, heard her screams before they are muffled into her older sister’s shoulder as she tries to soothe her.

 

No wonder Sansa has been looking so weary.

 

They have both been unexpectedly preoccupied, so the summons to her chamber are not at all a surprise. They both have duties to uphold, and he admires Sansa for being able to continue with priorities despite all of her personal turmoil.

 

He only has to knock once before she opens the door for him, a rather empty smile painted on her face.

 

“Good afternoon, Lady Sansa.” He lowers his head in greeting, and she nods in return, stepping back to give him room to enter.

 

“And to you, Lord Baratheon.” She closes the door behind him and moves swiftly towards a table in the center of the solar, skirts swishing delicately behind her.

 

She’s always the picture of elegance, Sansa Stark. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her composure waver.

 

Sansa frightens him in a completely different way then Arya ever has.

 

She turns to look at him again, this time with her eyebrow slightly raised, and it’s only then that he realizes he hasn’t moved from his spot just inside her chambers.

 

“Please, sit.” He does as she says, moves to a chair and sinks into it. She remains standing, picks up a bottle and goblet from the surface. “Wine?”

 

He nods, and she pours; the liquid leaks a dark purple into first his cup, then her own. She sits and they sip together, letting the sweetness roll down their throats.

 

“I hope you are finding your accommodations suitable, my lord.” Her voice is thoughtful, kind, and he’s not sure if it’s her words or the wine but he suddenly feels a warmth from within.

 

“They’re wonderful. Thank you.” He pauses before continuing, takes another sip from the goblet. “If you wouldn’t mind, just Gendry suits me much better than a lordly title. At least, among friends.”

 

Her eyebrows raise again at his request, and he suddenly feels ice plunge through his veins. Perhaps he was wrong to assume that she would be comfortable with his informality.

 

His blood warms again when the corners of her lips turn upwards into a smile.

 

“Gendry it is. But if you insist on that, I’ll have to insist on you calling me Sansa.” Her smirk grows, and it’s less empty than before. “It’s only fair.”

 

_This isn’t fair to you._

And his blood is turned cold once more.

 

Sansa seems to notice the change in his demeanor, and her lips pull sideways. The air feels as though it has stilled.

 

“I apologize for the manner of Winterfell at the moment, Gendry.” She lifts her wine to her mouth, but her eye contact with him doesn’t waver. “There have been some setbacks that were unforeseen in our preparations that has made moving forward much more difficult than intended. However, progress has not halted; it has only slowed.”

 

“Has Arya been a part of that?”

 

He watches as a flush floods onto her cheeks and down her neck, her brow knitting together as she takes in his question.

 

“My sister…” She hesitates, considers, tastes her words before letting them free. “My sister is very ill, and that has been a cause of my absence from duty, yes.”

 

Her voice remains steady, but he sees the way her hand that is not clutching the goblet has begun to quiver.

 

His eyes move down, gazes into his cup, and they both sit for a moment, silent if not for the whistling of the wind outside the solar’s windows.

 

Sansa’s voice is the one to break the quiet.

 

“You’ve known Arya for quite some time, haven’t you?”

 

The question should take him aback, and yet it feels natural to nod in response, confirm whatever suspicions Sansa has been harboring.

 

She leans back at his reply, takes another sip of wine before continuing.

 

“I’ve never seen her let anyone hold her the way she does you.”

 

As stupid as it is, he can feel his own blush make its way across his face.

 

“I just want to help her.”

 

His eyes drop to his cup again, but are immediately pulled back when he feels her hand on his arm. She’s looking at him with melancholy eyes.

 

“So do I.”

 

Her next exhale shakes.

 

“I didn’t know she was still alive.” She closes her eyes at that, and he takes care to make sure his next words are gentle because gods know he isn’t about to blame her for everything he’s been through.

 

She’s been through worse, he’s sure.

 

“I didn’t know when I came back here. I thought she was lost in Kings Landing. I thought she was gone.”

 

“Part of her is. Gone.” Sansa’s words are rigid, icy, but her hand remains warm on him. “I don’t know how to get her back. Jon thinks I do. I don’t know why.” She pauses, blinks, and looks back at him, composure back in place. “I’m sorry. This isn’t what you came here to discuss. I shouldn’t have–“

 

“Hey.” He knows it’s improper to interrupt, even less proper to take the hand that she’s pulling from his arm and hold it tight, but she stops, doesn’t pull away, and he knows she’s not going to penalize him for his lack of decorum. “She matters so much more than whatever we were going to speak about.”

 

She’s still for a moment, looking at him.

 

“I don’t know what else to do for her.” Her voice is the smallest he’s ever heard it. “I should know. I’m her sister. I should be able to help her, shouldn’t I? What use am I to Winterfell if I can’t even mend my own family?”

 

He feels his stomach twist, and he has to resist the urge to pull her into his arms to provide some sort of comfort, some sort of reassurance, _something_.

 

The Stark women have both broken his heart, in completely different ways.

 

“This isn’t your fault.” She blinks rapidly, and he wills her not to cry. “She’s strong, Arya. She’s still in there. We just have to help her find herself again.”

 

It’s the words he repeats like a prayer as he falls into a fitful sleep that night, hoping that perhaps the repetition will help the statement ring true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I really wanted to include some of Gendry's perspective because boy's been hurting!! There's a whole lot of overlap here but I wanted to explore his thoughts a little more in depth before moving forward, because Gendrya is a two way street!
> 
> Let me know what you think! Thank you for all being so patient with me.
> 
> Comments make my heart sing :)
> 
> xoxo


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wonders what normal really is, anymore.

She wonders what normal really is, anymore.

 

Sansa lies asleep beside her, her mouth open, breath gentle, red hair splayed over the pillow. Sometimes, she thinks about what her younger self would think about her needing her sister by her side to reach any sort of slumber.

 

When Sansa sleeps, she thinks.

 

She doesn’t know what normalcy looks like.

 

She doesn’t know what life looks like.

 

Not without her list. Or her skills.

 

It’s crossed her mind more times than she’d like to admit that without her list of names, without her swordsmanship and her abilities that once came as easily as drawing a breath, she is _nothing_.

 

Her breath catches in her throat whenever the thought crosses her mind.

 

She doesn’t know if she wants normal.

 

All Arya knows is that she doesn’t want _this_.

 

* * *

 

 

They’ve gotten into this unspoken pattern of always watching each other.

 

She’s caught him standing in the battlements as she works with Brienne, feels his eyes follow her from the moment she enters the dining hall to the second she leaves.

 

It’s not to say that she doesn’t do her own share of observing too.

 

Her gaze follows him as he examines the progress of the construction in the courtyards, striding smoothly from one end of the yard to the other. She watches as he speaks to his men over supper, laughing and listening and drinking his ale.

 

Sometimes they catch each other watching, stormy grey meeting bright blue, and every time he offers her a gentle smile.

 

Most of the time, she’ll return it.

 

They haven’t spoken more than a few true words since he sat by her bed, held her hands until she slept. In the morning, she woke alone, with only the rays of early sunlight to greet her.

 

She’s not really sure what to say to him.

 

There’s so much that she _wants_ to say, to do. She wants to apologize, properly apologize for the way she left. She wants to try and explain how she’s been feeling, how everything is trembling and difficult and frustrating and how she feels trapped in her own mind.

 

She wants to touch him, hold him, feel the warmth of his skin against hers and the electricity that his fingertips leave wherever they wander.

 

It’s overwhelming how her thoughts have so quickly become a flood of _him_.

 

How important he is to her.

 

But every time she thinks about getting closer, her mind is clouded with smoke and flames and screaming and the smell of burnt flesh and the crash of collapsing structures and the reminder that _she can’t save people, not anymore, and it already hurts enough letting Sansa in because what if something happens she can’t save her she can’t help her she’ll have to watch her die and she can’t watch anyone else that she loves die so she can’t love anyone else she can’t she just can’t._

Words fail when it comes to the uttermost depths of her mind.

 

Except for her brother.

 

“It’s rather funny, isn’t it?” She blinks at Bran’s words, her forehead creasing as she turns to look at him from her spot beside the pond. “I would presume that the difficult thing would be finding a way back to one another, not mustering up the courage to speak.”

 

“It’s not like that.” Whatever jest is in his eyes fades, and he’s back to the wise, vacant look that is a constant reminder of how much her little brother is not her little brother anymore.

 

“It’s not.” He agrees. “You don’t want to hurt him again, like before. I understand.”

 

Sometimes it strikes her completely off-guard how much it feels as though she’s lost three brothers, not two.

 

“There are many things to be fearful of, Arya.” His words are wise, calculated. “Gendry Baratheon is not one of them.”

 

“It’s not him I’m frightened of.” There’s a softness to the words meant to snap, and he tilts his head slightly to one side.

 

“You’re frightened of his pain. You’re frightened that your suffering is going to slice him to the bone.” She bites her lip, vision blurring as she looks back into the still water of the pond. “You’re frightened of loving and then losing again.”

 

“ _Stop_.” She hates the way her voice is quivering, hates that she can’t will the sting away from the corner of her eyes, hates the way that Bran knows exactly what she’s feeling and can blatantly articulate it better than she’ll ever be able to.

 

He pauses.

 

“You’ve been brave nearly your whole life.” His speech is soft, almost fond, and it feels as they are reversed, as though she is the youngest of the Starks. “I can understand if you’re tired and you need to step back. Everyone would.”

 

“But?” She can tell he’s not finished, and the wan smile that appears on his face confirms it.

 

“You just need to be brave once more. For him.”

 

She wants to. She wants to try.

 

“You deserve happiness, Arya. Let him help. Show him that he can try.”

 

* * *

 

 

The shadows of the forge have become smaller, but she’s become smaller too.

 

It’s just as easy as she remembers, slipping into the darkness and becoming so quiet, so still.

 

It’s good to know that not everything is difficult now.

 

She leans against the wall, crossing her arms and tipping her head to the side.

 

She watches him work.

 

He’s in the midst of the forge like he hasn’t spent a day away, stripped down to a thin tunic that sticks to his back with the sweat that the heat draws out. The tip of whatever metal he’s chosen to work with is a gleaming orange, and she gazes as he repeatedly raises his arm and brings a hammer down onto the supple material. His eyes do not waver; not even as beads of perspiration drip down from his forehead to his cheek to the edge of his chin.

 

It’s like he’s performing a dance, and she is an audience of one.

 

His movement is choreographed, mesmerizing, and there’s a large part of her that could just stay in the shadows and watch him craft until the sun goes down and the whole place is flooded with darkness.

 

Her legs quiver as she takes a step out of her hiding place, fingers dancing restlessly on Needle’s hilt as the light collides with her face.

 

He is there, and he is radiant, and she is shrunken and unsteady.

 

There is a wave washing over her that feels almost like shame.

 

_You deserve happiness, Arya_.

 

How could Bran really, truly know?

 

It’s the sound of metal striking metal that pulls her back, brings him back into focus, and she swallows before forcing her lips into an upwards curve.

 

“I didn’t know that it was within a lord’s duties to inspect the forge of their hosts.”

 

It’s almost painful, the way she’s trying to sound as she did once. The words feel bitter and wrong on her tongue.

 

He looks up from his work, blinks twice when his eyes find her as though she’s an apparition that could be blown away like smoke.

 

It’s hot, she can feel it now, the beginning of sweat pooling at her brow and the flush creeping onto her cheeks.

 

“Arya.” He says her name, only her name, as though he’s tasting it on his lips, and she suddenly is infuriated at how they haven’t talked, how they’ve communicated solely through accidental glances in hallways.

 

How her name somehow sounds foreign coming from him, the unfamiliarity with which he articulates is.

 

It’s only then that she is suddenly and fully aware of how hard her heart is beating, how it’s pace has quickened to a rapid pulse.

 

“Hello.” Her response lacks the attempt at vigor from her opening sentence, no false smile plastered across her teeth.

 

Pretending for him is pointless, she’s decided.

 

He can see straight through her, especially now that she’s become so transparent.

 

He puts down his hammer, places it on the table beside the flames, but doesn’t move any closer than that.

 

She’s not sure if she’s utterly relieved or disappointed.

 

Neither one of them says a word, just looks at one another as they have both been doing from afar over the past couple of days. He lifts up the edge of his tunic, wipes his forehead and then rubs his hands so that the soot is transferred from one surface to another.

 

He looks _good_. She hasn’t managed to truly look at him since he’s returned, to take inventory of new scars and lines and shapes and creases.

 

Every time they’ve been in a close enough proximity, her mind has never been silent enough for her to take him in.

 

He’s still broad, muscular, but there’s something about the way he’s holding himself. She wonders if Sansa has commented on it at all, about how his posture has improved greatly since becoming a lord. His hair is beginning to grow back, no longer the shorn head that she recalls from their last encounter.

 

She wonders if he plans to keep it that way.

 

“Are you alright?” His words are swallowed by the stone, muted.

 

She nods, wraps her arms more tightly around her torso.

 

“I didn’t know you would be forging while at Winterfell.” He raises an eyebrow.

 

“Then what were you doing sneaking into the smithy?”

 

Her lips quirk up momentarily at that.

 

“Lucky guess.”

 

And he smiles too.

 

Something within her warms, and she knows it’s not from the dense heat of the forge’s flames.

 

“I end up in the forge wherever I go, apparently.” He takes a step closer, leans against the side of the table where his tools lie. “Can’t go too long without the heat. Feels wrong.”

 

Somehow, she’s forgotten the way his muscles create ripples where the sweat clings, how his perspiration is more of an aura when he’s doing what he’s skilled at, what he loves.

 

She wonders, with a pang in her chest, if she used to emit that glow when she was training, even fighting in combat.

 

“What say the people of Storm’s End, when they discovered that their lord would prefer to spend his time crafting weapons than in counsel?”

 

His smile stays in place, but his gaze falls to his feet before responding.

 

“I’m sure they were happy to discover that their lord is actually good at something.”

 

“Many things.” She corrects him without hesitation, the words slipping out with an air of confidence that almost takes her by surprise. Moments of assurance in her tone have become few and far between.

 

Perhaps it’s easier when she knows the absoluteness of the truth behind her sentiment.

 

“You have too much faith in me, I think.”

 

“I think I have just enough.”

 

He picks up a spare piece of metal from the table, begins to fiddle with it idly.

 

“I’m not very good at lordly things.” She can _just_ sense the waver in his voice, the way his tone has changed ever so slightly. “I’m not sure how good I’m going to get.”

 

“You haven’t had much time, Gendry.” She takes a step towards him, hesitation to the wind. They’re still separated by tools and metal and structure, but she hopes that he can feel her movement, the way she’s gotten the slightest bit closer. “The duties of a lordship come with little ease to those who’ve been preparing for it their whole life. No one should expect you to be good right from the start.”

 

He’s quiet, continues to toy with the metal as a distraction, and the dull clinking of it against his fingertips creates the most miniscule echo she’s ever heard.

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been cut out to be a lord.” His words seem to be more to himself than to her, until he stops his fidgeting and looks back up. “It’s hard to stop yearning to go and smith or ride somewhere when you’re expected to sit and listen all day. I’m trying, but it’s difficult.”

 

She understands exactly what he means.

 

A decidedly selfish part of her wonders if he understands now why she could never be a lady.

 

She pushes it away.

 

“Do you want to go on a ride?” It’s an impulsive question, one that barely has time to formulate before she throws it into the space between them.

 

She’s terrified, down deep within her gut, but Bran’s words have not stopped their persistent echoing in her mind.

 

_Let him help. Show him that he can try._

He smiles again, ever so softly, and puts the metal back upon the table.

 

“I’d like that.”

 

* * *

 

 

They ride past the walls of Winterfell, through the surrounding hills and into the green cover of the trees. The wind blows past her, knotting her hair as they move, and she takes every chance that she can to inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale the smooth air of the forest.

 

Gendry rides beside her, his mare matching hoof-falls with hers, and when she looks over at him as they gallop, he’s positively beaming.

 

Her body isn’t conditioned for the movements of riding anymore, and Needle’s sheath keeps bumping against her leg, but she doesn’t care about any of it. Not one bit.

 

It takes her a while to realize that she’s beaming too.

 

They stop when they reach a clearing in the woods, lets the horses drink from the creek that runs down the center.

 

It’s as though they could be anywhere, travelling together, on the cusp of some great adventure, instead of just being out of the sight of her old home.

 

There is no smoke here.

 

He dismounts first, slides off of the mare with a sort of elegance, and she goes to follow.

 

Her reality comes jolting back as her feet hit the ground with a dull thud, and her legs positively _shudder_ on impact, the weakening muscles threatening to give out.

 

She barely has time to steady herself before Gendry is there, hands on her shoulders, doing it for her.

 

She doesn’t know how he doesn’t miss a single beat with her now. Perhaps it’s her slowing down, becoming more predictable.

 

The thought leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

 

“Thank you.” Her voice is low, and he nods his response, making sure that she’s solid on the ground before loosening his grip and moving over to sit at the trunk of a willow tree at the edge of the clearing.

 

She adjusts her sheath and follows, sits by his side.

 

His eyes do not leave her for a single moment.

 

There is so much she wants to say, so much that is climbing up her throat, clawing to get out, but the only thing her mind can muster is an apology.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

And somehow, he beats her to it.

 

Her nose wrinkles in indignation, makes his oh so serious face lighten ever so slightly.

 

“You shouldn’t be apologizing–”

 

“But I am and I will.” He interrupts, and continues before she has a moment to intervene. “If I had known about everything, about you, I would’ve been back to Winterfell in a fortnight.”

 

“No, you wouldn’t.” Her objection lands in his heart, she can see it. “You’ve got Storm’s End to take care of now. It isn’t your duty to drop everything to try and save me. It isn’t anyone’s. Sansa thinks it’s hers, but all it’s done is hurt her.” The guilt that accompanies her words burn as they exit her throat. “Besides, how would you have known? You didn’t even know I was alive until you returned to Winterfell.”

 

He tenses at that, lips growing taut as they pull into a straight line, and she’s drenched, once again, in cold, heavy, unrelenting shame.

 

He was so angry during their initial reunion, before he had seen how she was not as close to alive as he had expected.

 

He has every right to be angry; she knows it more than anything.

 

The thought of forgetting him, even for such a brief period of time, even because she was so damaged, so unstable, _burns_.

 

And then his hand is in hers, fingers interwoven, gripping hers so tightly that her breath _stops_.

 

_I mourned you, after I heard about King’s Landing._

_I thought you’d become dust._

 

She pulls his hand into her lap, envelopes it with her free one so that it lies in the middle of both of hers.

 

“ _I’m_ sorry.” The words feel stupid, meaningless, because she’s already hurt him so badly, more than once, and she doesn’t deserve him sitting right beside her with his kind heart and apologies and strength and forgiveness, but she doesn’t know what else to say. “You were right, before. I could’ve sent you a raven. I could’ve asked Jon or Sansa to, but I didn’t. And it hurt you.”

 

He’s looking at their hands now, and he begins to stroke hers with his thumb.

 

“I was hurt.” His agreement stings, and there’s a flicker of deserved anger in his tone that completely juxtaposes the action of his hand. “It was hard. I couldn’t concentrate on everything that I should’ve because I couldn’t stop thinking about you, Arya. I didn’t want to let myself believe you were alive, which meant that all I could think about was you being _crushed_. I was _angry_.” The motion of his thumb stops, and she’s suddenly painfully aware of the way her knuckles have turned white with her grasp. “But you were hurt, too. You are. You aren’t well, and I can’t blame you for that.”

 

She blinks.

 

Her throat feels raw.

 

“Arya.” He brings his spare hand to unify with the others, the knot of fingers now hovering above the space between them. “I know it’s not my duty to care for you. But I _do_. I have for a long time, and I think I will for the rest of my life, no matter where we end up.”

 

There are tears, she feels them, sliding down to fall from her chin as he looks at her, bright blue eyes never wavering.

 

“I’m not who I was before.” The sentence is thick and heavy on her lips. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be her again. I don’t know if I _can_.”

 

_Arya Stark._

 

A mere whisper of who she used to be _._

And Gendry’s eyes are brimming with tenderness.

 

“You’ve never had to be the Bringer of the Dawn for me to care for you. That’s never broken the deal.” He untangles one of his hands from hers, brings it up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear as he’s done so many times before. “I care about your future, not your past. I care about who you’re going to become, and how we’re going to help you get there.”

 

Just like their last conversation, his hand lingers on her cheek as he continues.

 

“I care about how _I’m_ going to help you get there.”

 

Her lips pressing fiercely to his acts as the punctuation to his sentence.

 

He stiffens at first, taken aback by her swift action, and then absolutely melts, shapes himself to her as his hands mold into her back.

 

He is warm and gentle and smells of smoke and dirt and she is so scared, scared of touching him and hurting him and losing him again.

 

But above all, above everything she feels, he is _solid_. He is _there_. He is _real_ , tasting the salt from tears past as they fall uninhibited from her eyes.

 

Knowing that, everything fades into the distance.

 

And when she pulls away, both of her hands clasped around his face and up into his hair, he is crying too.

 

For just a second, she thinks that perhaps Bran was right.

 

She did just have to be brave once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!
> 
> I thought it was about time to give these two a nice proper little reunion, and my heart was SO warm writing the end. Fear not though, we have not reached the end of this story! Gendry can't fix everything with one kiss ;).
> 
> (Also this was one monster of a chapter...my longest yet! Wild!)
> 
> Let me know what you thought! Comments make my heart grow bigger and my fingers type faster!
> 
> xoxo


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be more notes at the end of the chapter, but I just wanted to warn you that this chapter contains a brief but slightly graphic depiction of violence and allusion to sexual/physical assault (Ramsey is his own warning, y'all) so keep that in mind before reading!

The wonderment of it all is that nothing changes. Not really.

 

He slots right into her life as though there’s always been a keyhole waiting, wanting.

 

It’s almost frustrating. Almost.

 

He sits next to her at breakfast now, slides into the seat opposite Sansa with his bowl of whatever is warm and offered and smiles at her before beginning his meal.

 

Sometimes they exchange words; often, they don’t.

 

There’s something warm, almost comforting about having him right there next to her, and it helps her will herself to eat, to make the task of lifting her spoon to her lips and swallowing it’s contents less tedious, less difficult. Sometimes, without realizing, her utensil even scrapes the bottom of the bowl, drawing the last dregs of her porridge with it.

 

Gendry’s smile always widens at the sound.

 

Sansa positively _beams_.

 

And without fail, after every meal, Gendry will take her and Sansa’s dishes with his own to return them to the kitchen, standing with a “my lady” in Sansa’s direction and a nod to her. The first time, Sansa stands with him, reaches over Arya to retrieve her plate from his grasp.

 

“You’re our guest, Lord Baratheon.” She had said indignantly, but there was a slight air of amusement in her tone. He, in return, had gently tugged the plate back, put it atop his.

 

“Aye, and I don’t wish you to think I’m overstaying my welcome.” And he left, down the steps, offering smiles to those he passed before disappearing through the doorway to the kitchen. Sansa had stayed up for a moment before returning to her seat, and Arya could feel her eyes shift to her.

 

“Tell Lord Baratheon that he’s welcome to stay as long as he likes.” The amusement was unmasked as her sister reached and took a drink. “And he doesn’t need to clear the table for us in order for the sentiment to continue.”

 

Arya had smiled at that, looked down at the table where her plate had previously been resting.

 

“I don’t think he’ll listen.”

 

She had been right.

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes she walks around the fortress with Sansa as she oversees the rebuilding of their home.

 

They’re a formidable pair, or at least appear as such. She notices in the way the bricklayers pause in their work as they pass, nod at them and wait for some sort of approval from her sister before continuing the labor. Some even bow.

 

It’s easy to forget, sometimes, the position of power that her sister holds in the North, especially when she spends most of her time with Arya in private quarters. She has the privilege of seeing Sansa when her walls are down, her façade dimming.

 

She would never consider Sansa vulnerable, not anymore, but she does bear witness often to her sister becoming soft.

 

Softer would be a better term, really. Sansa does not rule the North with an iron fist reminiscent of the harshness the region has faced in the past; instead, she rules with a calm, steady, caring hand, one calloused by exposure and experience but still coaxing, still nurturing. She can be crisp, quick and sharp when duty calls, but it’s the way she holds her arms open to the smallfolk of the North that Arya believes has gained her the respect of the people

 

The thought of Sansa being the smartest person she knows still lingers, unwavering, in her mind.

 

So she is reminded of her sister’s status as they make their rounds, as the people offer smiles and acknowledgements and glances at the two of them. It can be difficult to imagine what the difference would be like if Sansa was to walk alone.

 

Although the fact often deserts her, she holds quite a level of stature in the North as well.

 

As she’s become more lucid, more aware of her surroundings instead of the constant haze of her hellscape, she has noticed the way the people of the North regard her. It’s quite similar to the treatment of her sister, with acknowledgements and nods and eyes following as she passes; however, people very rarely approach her as they do Sansa. In fact, they seem to keep their distance most days.

 

She understands why. She knows what she looks like. Who she seems to be.

 

Arya Stark, the Bringer of the Dawn, Night-King Slayer, who beheaded the Dragon Queen and returned home broken, scared, lashing.

 

She wonders if the songs Sansa says they have written about her references the latter.

 

They wander the yards together after making their way around the fortress, and her breath catches in her throat as they round the corner to where archery practice used to be held, oh so long beforehand.

 

Her brothers and father have been gone a long time now, long enough that they’ve often floated to the back of her mind.

 

(They’re always there, though. They’ll never truly leave.)

 

Sometimes, they appear at the forefront head on, ramming into her skull like they’ve run into a brick wall. Today, the archery grounds have coaxed them forwards.

 

She stops walking, plants her feet in the dirt as her eyes flit over the surroundings, from the targets to the benches to the hooks meant for bows to hang from when practice was over.

 

_She remembers Robb and Jon and Theon, standing and laughing and watching as Bran practiced, always hitting the outside circle if he even touched the target at all. She remembers Rickon, sitting on the benches, a big toothy grin plastered across his face as he observed, knowing that his turn would soon come to load the quiver and pull back his elbow._

_She remembers hitting the target, the surprise and applause from her brothers on the side, the way their father smiled from the top of the stairs. She remembers her own laughter as she curtsied, properly like Septa Mordane had taken many pains in teaching, remembers the way the dirt rose from the ground as Bran moved to chase her around the yard._

_Nothing had mattered, then. Not really._

_The only thing that mattered was her family, alive and well and laughing and smiling in front of her, and she hadn’t even known how lucky she was._

 

“Arya?” She blinks, looks up, and Sansa’s in front of her, eyes soft, standing close to the target.

“Everything alright?”

 

She smiles a sad smile, moves towards the target and places her hand on the side.

 

“Yes.” Her voice is quiet, and this is a different type of pain, not the agony she’s been faced with as of late but a cold, hard, pulsing ache in her gut that is always present, just sometimes dialed back. “I’m just remembering. I don’t think I could come here and not.”

 

Sansa’s face falls into an identical melancholy smile, and she looks up at the battlements above. Better than anyone else, Sansa understands.

 

“I’m scared of forgetting Father’s face.” The words are edged with something harsh, but still remain soft at the core. “Sometimes I wake up and for a moment I cannot picture him and it’s terrifying to me. I don’t ever want to forget that. Or the way he would laugh.”

 

Arya reaches, her fingers interlacing with Sansa’s long, slender ones, and squeezes her hand.

 

“I know. Me too.”

 

Sansa squeezes back.

 

“I miss them every day.” It’s more of a sigh than a statement, and her eyes are still fixed on the battlements. “Father and Mother and Robb and Rickon.”

 

“And Theon.” Her sister takes a gulp of the cold winter air at Arya’s words, and she feels her fingers momentarily stiffen in her grasp. She brings her other hand to envelope her sister’s, wills the warmth of hers to flow through two layers of gloves until her hand is at ease again.

 

She hasn’t asked Sansa about Theon; not before she left or since she’s returned. It almost feels selfish, not asking, but her sister has never brought it up either and she doesn’t want to pry. She wasn’t really in any position to pry when she arrived back at Winterfell, anyways.

 

They’ve never sat down and discussed point blank what they’d gone through in their years apart; in truth, it felt so meager compared to all the tasks that were at hand, so unimportant to the duties that lay in front of them. At the time, it was enough that they were both alive and at Winterfell; it was more than either of them had ever expected.

 

The most that she’s gathered about Sansa’s past has been from the whispers through the walls of Winterfell, through muttered words and woeful glances. She’d known about the Bolton’s taking Winterfell, about how they’d made it cold and cruel and a place to be feared.

 

She hadn’t known that her sister had been married off to Ramsey Bolton, or that Theon had apparently been the equivalent to his handmaiden, but tortured and broken and then molded into what was needed of him.

 

She hadn’t needed to stretch her imagination to gather what Ramsey had subjected her sister to.

 

And although she’s never asked and Sansa’s never confirmed, it still makes her throat tight and her fists clench and white-hot anger pulse through her veins any time the Bolton’s made the slightest return to her mind.

 

But the whispers also spoke of an escape, a leap of faith, and how Theon and Sansa had fled the fortress and somehow, miraculously, _survived_.

 

And then there was the way that Sansa had cried, composure to the wind as shaking, heaving sobs pulsated through her, over Theon’s body.

 

She could never say for sure what they had been to each other, but they had been something. Something important. Something worth surviving for.

 

Her sister’s hand loosens, melts between hers, and the corner of her mouth lifts.

 

“And Theon.” She repeats, voice lower than before, eyes lowering from the battlements to the benches to the ground. “All of them. Every second.”

 

The guilt grabs her like a chokehold as she remembers the way that she had wished to never wake up, had longed for the dust and rubble of Kings Landing to swallow her whole.

 

It had been so incredibly _selfish_.

 

And as she squeezes Sansa’s hand, more fiercely than before, she makes a vow to herself.

 

She will not die. Not by her own hand.

 

Even though living is hard and hurts, she cannot break the ones that she loves into even smaller pieces than what they are now. She owes it to them.

 

They stand in the archery yard, hand in hand, knuckles white as they clutch each other, until the light begins to fade as the sun drops in the sky.

 

* * *

 

 

_He’s got his back to her but she doesn’t need to see it, only needs to see the way her sister cowers in complete and utter terror, holding her nightshift up where the thin strap has torn and covering her chest with her arms, to know it’s the shadow of Ramsey’s body._

_He’s not moving, standing over her, save for the hands clenching and unclenching by his sides, but Sansa is shaking, breathing erratic, her knees bending as though she’s trying to make herself as small as she possibly can. Bruises litter her shoulders, thighs, face, bright purples and muted greens and yellows painting a story across her body._

_She is small, thin, frail, and so scared, and Arya wants nothing more than to run to her sister, shield her from the man she once called her husband, take the blows on her back and then turn and peel the skin from his very bones._

_But her feet are cemented to the floor of what was once her parent’s chambers and she is stuck, held hostage by the brick that she used to run across to escape nightmares in the past._

_The first time he hits her, she barely registers a wind up._

_It’s a closed-fist punch and it cracks across her sister’s face with an echo that seems to reverberate in Arya’s ears much longer than should be possible._

_Sansa barely has time to flinch before the next impact comes, this time taking the form of a swift kick to her stomach. She whimpers, put a hand to her face to wipe the blood dripping from her nose and shuts her eyes tightly, trying so hard to breathe._

_She doesn’t try to defend herself, doesn’t even block him with her hands as he delivers blow after blow. She barely even makes more than a groan, no screams or cries or outbursts of any kind._

_And Arya can’t help her._

_She’s right there, steps away, and she can’t do a single thing to stop him. She doesn’t even think Sansa can see her._

_She’s a ghost._

_There is a sickening crack that fills the room, and she’s not sure what he’s broke but Sansa screams, shrill and blood-curdling and drawn out and she has never seen her sister like this, never heard her emit a sound of such sheer, harsh pain._

_Sansa’s outburst is presented in melody with Ramsey’s laughter._

_It’s a sadistic, quiet sound, creates the most horrific juxtaposition that she can fathom, and she is trying to pick up her feet to move because she can’t just stand here, can’t just stay still in these ever familiar chambers and watch her sister be beaten and tortured and killed right in front of her but her legs won’t move and her eyes won’t shut and she can’t reach Needle and Sansa’s cries are echoing through the bricks and Ramsey’s laughter is growing louder, more maniac by the second and she can’t move she can’t think she can’t breathe she can’t breathe_ –

 

Hands tear her from the seams of her nightmare, grasping her shoulders and ripping her back to the surface.

 

“Breathe.” His voice is low, calm, steady, and she’s suddenly painfully aware of how she’s gasping for air as though she’s just been pulled up from a drowning state. Her chest heaves, shudders, and every lift feels heavy, as though there’s some sort of weight sitting directly on top.

 

But his hands are gripping her shoulders so tightly, his face so close that she can feel the heat of his breath on her nose, and he’s so warm and real and there that she persists, pushes her chest up with breath and letting it fall back in shaking rivulets.

 

She’s not in the nightmare anymore, even though the walls had been made of the ever-familiar brick of her home.

 

She’s not in the nightmare anymore. She’s not in the nightmare anymore. She’s not in the nightmare anymore.

 

The air filling her lungs begins to regulate with her silent mantra that she chants in her mind.

 

Gendry’s grip loosens, and he begins running his hands up and down her arms so very lightly.

 

“There we go. That’s it.” His voice is still so sturdy, even as a murmur, and the warmth of his hands is spreading from her hands to her collarbone, easing her breath even more. “You’re here. You’re safe. This is real. This is real.”

 

She nods at that, slightly lightheaded from the exertion following her wake, and he reaches to the table beside her bed and pulls back a mug.

 

“Just water.” He speaks before she can do as much as raise an eyebrow, and places it in her palm.

 

She accepts the offer, raises the cup to her lips and takes a sip of the cool, fresh liquid. His hands float from her shoulders down to her lap, rest gently on either hip, and it’s remarkable how well he can ground her, the speed with which he is able to pull her back to reality.

 

And suddenly, as she’s pulled back to reality, she’s acutely aware that they are not the only people in her bed chamber.

 

She blinks, looks past Gendry’s shoulder towards her door, and a woman with an unmistakable head of red hair is lingering against the wall.

 

It’s dark in her room, the only real light coming from the candle at her bedside, but it’s suddenly, blindingly clear that Sansa is crying.

 

She’s got her arms wrapped around her chest, hugging herself so tightly, and Arya realizes with a pang that she looks like the ghost in her dream.

 

Horror washes over her like she’s been dipped in freezing water.

 

It’s become increasingly rare for her to wake with Sansa’s tears mingling with her own, much more usual to be soothed with a steady hand brushing through her hair. If Sansa cries during her night terrors, there’s usually a significant reason.

 

She’s never had a nightmare about this, almost exclusively about the Great Burning or events that followed. This, she realizes, is completely uncharted territory.

 

_What did she do?_

“ _Sansa_.” Her voice is rough, hoarse, and her sister looks at her, fingers curled and resting underneath her lips in a gesture that seems to be in her anxious subconscious. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, just looks at Arya, wiping her cheek with haste.

 

She’s hurt her, again, and she doesn’t even know how.

 

“Hey.” Gendry pulls her back, draws her attention as best he can, and places a soft hand on her wrist. “Do you feel up to a walk? The night’s fresh air would do you well.”

 

It _aches_ , to know that the best thing she can do for Sansa right now is to leave her be. It aches to know that Gendry can sense that, too.

 

She nods again, and his fingers interlace with hers as he helps her out of bed, pauses once she’s up on both feet to make sure that she’s steady.

 

They walk together towards the door, and Sansa shifts to the side to give them space, and _she wants to hold her sister and wipe her tears away and promise her that she’s never going to let anything hurt her again_ but Sansa barely looks her in the eye.

 

So they leave the room.

 

* * *

 

 

He leads her up to the battlements, keeps a hand on the small of her back as they ascend Winterfell’s flights of stairs.

 

When the fresh air hits her face, she inhales so deeply that she nearly coughs, and he smiles, hand falling back into unity with hers.

 

“Thought it might feel nice.” She nods, closes her eyes for just a moment, and he squeezes her hand ever so gently. “Are you feeling a little better?”

 

“I think so.” Her voice is still low, almost gravely, and she moves to sink down against the back of a battlement, sitting and resting her back against the brick. He follows, movement nearly identical, except their hands land in his lap.

 

They’re quiet, and she can hear the wind whistling through the turrets, through the trees of the forests that surround them, and she inhales, exhales, inhales, and exhales before asking.

 

“What did I do?”

 

He knows exactly what she’s talking about, she can tell, and he doesn’t stiffen, doesn’t react, just shifts his head to their eyes meet in the middle.

 

“You screamed.” He says simply, thumb running over her knuckles. “You screamed a lot. You were thrashing around by the time I got to your chambers.”

 

“Did Sansa come first?” He nods, and her heart sinks. “Gendry, what did I _say_?”

 

There’s another moment of silence.

 

“Her name.” His voice has gotten quieter, and she draws a breath. “Over and over. When I got there, she was trying to wake you, but you were yelling something about her needing to defend herself, I think.”

 

_Oh_.

 

“It was about her. The dream.” Her own voice surprises her, seems to speak of its own accord. “I’ve had nightmares of her dying or hurting before but they’ve all been because of the dragons or their queen or something like that. Never–” Her breath hitches, and she stops.

 

He presses her knuckles to his lips before his thumb resumes its pattern.

 

“It’s alright. Take your time.”

 

He is so good. Too good.

 

She manages another shaking breath before continuing.

 

“Never about her and Ramsey Bolton. Never _here_.” His thumb stops it’s movement, and instead he holds her hand so securely her heart could burst. “He was beating her and killing her and I had to stand and watch everything. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t blink. It was in my mother and father’s old chambers.” She sniffs, lifts a hand to wipe a stray tear before it could reach her chin. “She was tortured here, in Winterfell, in our own _home_ , and I did nothing.”

 

“You couldn’t have.”

 

“Yes, I could’ve. I always could’ve. There’s always something I could’ve changed, could’ve done differently, and then maybe she wouldn’t have been tortured and _raped_ in our parent’s bedrooms.”

 

The wind that whistles seems to grow louder in the silence, and she turns her head to the right, to the opposite of where their eyes can rest in unity.

 

“You can’t save everyone, Arya.” She’s shaking her head as she feels his free hand join his other in holding hers. “I know you want to. I know you would if you could. I know you can’t just stop thinking about everything that’s happened and how if you had just maybe swung Needle a different way, you could’ve prevented it all. But you need to learn how.”

 

“I don’t know if I can.” Her voice is so small. “I don’t know what to say to Sansa. I don’t think I can forget what’s happened to her, or in Kings Landing.”

 

“I’m not saying you need to forget.” He’s got her hand, so tight. “I’m saying you need to be able to acknowledge that that is the past, and there’s nothing you can do to change it. As much as you want to, or feel like you owe it to someone to do so.”

 

“What if I can’t?” Her words falter, fear ever present, and she turns to look back at him, right into his bright blue eyes.

 

It terrifies her how easy her vulnerability comes with him.

 

“You can. I promise.” And there is so much sincerity behind his voice, behind his eyes, that it feels as though the clouds in her mind open up just for a moment and let the smallest ray of sunlight pour down. “You are the strongest person I’ve met, Arya. If anyone can do it, it’ll be you.”

 

He leans forward to press the softest kiss to her temple, and her eyes flutter closed, just for a second.

 

And the clearing in the clouds stays.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey loves!! Long time, no see.
> 
> I'm so sorry for the delay in this piece. I've been having a very odd, very frustrating creative block for a while (with this story in particular) and it's made it incredibly difficult to find motivation to write/create. That being said, I am back with this update! It's a little filler-y and very unedited, but I hope you enjoyed it! More will be coming hopefully very soon.
> 
> THANK YOU for all of y'all who continue to read and support my fics, you all make my heart sing.
> 
> Reviews make me smile so big!

**Author's Note:**

> Oof.
> 
> Alright y'all. 
> 
> I promise there is more Gendrya on it's way, but I wanted to take my time with this piece to really push forwards the idea of Arya's PTSD/facing the reality of everything that has happened in her life. I really believe that she is hurting and has been for a long time, and I have this idea that after everything is finished and she finally has a moment to breathe, the reality of the past comes crashing down. Vulnerable!Arya is very interesting to write, and I'm going to try and get the next chapter out ASAP.
> 
> There will be a happy ending of sorts, I promise. I'm not gonna do these babies dirty this time around!
> 
> Please let me know what you think!
> 
> xoxo


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